The Songbird and the Heart of Stone (Crowns of Nyaxia #3)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

A sar gave me a slightly pitying look, the way one might look at a child who had just proudly declared that water was wet.

“Yes,” he said, and strode into the room. I followed, a little dazed. Maybe the whirlwind of the last few days was starting to get to me, because choppy syllables poured out of my mouth instead of actual words that meant anything useful.

“But—it’s—necromancy is—no one ever—I thought?—”

Asar knelt at the circle, fixing a stray mark at the edge. “Are you horrified or excited?” he said drily. “I can’t tell.”

Shamefully, I couldn’t quite tell, either.

“Horrified?” I meant for this to be a firm answer, but my voice rose at the end of the word, adding an unintended question mark.

To say that necromancy was taboo would be putting it lightly. It was such a universal subject of disgust and fear that it had transcended into the realm of myth. In the human lands, it had become an overused set piece in scary stories, often met with rolled eyes and scoffs. But the vampires took necromancy more seriously—maybe because they knew it was possible. I’d heard rumors that a few Shadow-born sorcerers had managed it over the years, though the Shadowborn denied it. It was considered, at best, unwise to tamper with the veil between the living and the dead. At worst, it was seen as an insult to Nyaxia—and no one wanted to risk that.

All this to say, necromancy was forbidden. Very, very forbidden. A rare point of agreement between both humans and vampires.

But a tiny part of myself was also fascinated by it.

As a child in the Citadel, I’d loved reading about rare magics. At least once a month, Saescha would drag me out of the…?less-than-proper shelves of the archives in the small hours of the morning. But I’d been intrigued by them the way children were often intrigued by ghost stories. It wasn’t real to me.

This was definitely real.

One look at the glyphs on the floor told me that this was powerful work, and conducted by someone who took it very seriously. There were symbols here that even I didn’t recognize, and I’d spent the better part of a full human lifetime studying magic. Each stroke—every one of thousands—was meticulous, the work of a master craftsman. It was already advanced magic to create any kind of life, whether it be healing animals or promoting the growth of crops. The complexity that would go into bringing a soul back to life—a mortal soul, with all the countless factors within it?—

I stopped myself.

This is necromancy, Mische. Necromancy. Dark magic. You shouldn’t be impressed.

Every time I scolded myself, my inner voice sounded a little like my sister’s.

I wasn’t impressed, I justified to myself. I was just…?interested. That was not the same thing.

“I just—I thought necromancy is forbidden,” I said.

Asar continued painting over some of the strokes that didn’t meet his standards. “And forbidden things never happen.”

He was such a smug asshole.

“I know that,” I said. “But it’s your own father’s rule, that’s all.”

“My father often needs to break his own rules. Every king does. And if they’re smart, they all keep someone disposable on hand to do the rule breaking for them.”

The bitterness in his voice was palpable.

I tore my gaze from the glyphs and watched Asar, his brow low in concentration.

The Wraith Warden. A title given to someone who had built their reputation on a mountain of dirty tasks. Asar was the second son. Illegitimate. The king probably never expected him to become an heir.

“So…?is that why he exiled you?” I guessed.

I wasn’t sure why I bothered asking Asar questions. He ignored me and stood. “Come here.”

The tug on my mind had me taking a few steps before I could stop myself. But then I stopped short, pushing back against the pressure on my thoughts.

“Don’t do that,” I snapped.

Irritation flashed over Asar’s face, but so did something much more satisfying—surprise.

“Just ask nicely,” I muttered. “That’s all!”

I joined him at the edge of the glyph circle. I could feel his gaze on me for a long moment, as if he was considering saying something.

“What?” I said.

He shook his head and turned to the body.

“I need your help with this.”

He pointed to one part of the circle. Up close, I could see now that it was made of five interlocking parts arranged around the corpse. All but one had an object placed at its center.

It had been a long time since I’d read about necromancy, and I’d never seen what the ceremony looked like in practice, but I pieced together what I was seeing.

“It takes five elements to resurrect someone,” I said.

I was very satisfied by Asar’s momentary silence. I gave him a sly smile.

“What?” I said. “You think a Dawndrinker wouldn’t know about necromancy?”

“Not very holy of you.”

“Can’t bring the light unless I know what the darkness looks like, Warden.”

He let out a low sound that almost—almost—sounded like a chuckle.

“A mortal is comprised of five components that separate the living from the dead,” he said. “And necromancy requires the spell to bring together all five again. So yes, it needs something to represent each of those elements.”

He gestured to the first item in the circle—a long lock of silver hair bound with a red ribbon. It looked like it had once belonged to the corpse, a match to the silver-black tresses that fanned out around her shoulders.

“Body,” he said. “In this case, I have the fresh corpse, so it’s largely ceremonial.”

Now he nodded to the next item—a little wooden flute. “ Breath . This represents the passage of time.”

Next, a gold necklace.

“ Psyche . It represents memories. The past.”

I squinted at the necklace, craning my neck for a better look at the emblem on it. It looked familiar—a circle bisected, with lines branching out from it. But before I could speak, Asar had already moved on.

He gestured to the next one—a tiny, bloodstained blanket. My stomach turned when I looked at it, though I couldn’t quite identify why. It was small, and once had been white, but now it was covered with red-black blood. Whether it was vampire blood or old, dried human blood, I couldn’t tell.

“Secrets,” Asar said. “The things mortals hide from themselves. And finally…”

His gaze settled on the last piece of the circle, which was empty. “ Soul . That’s what I need you for.”

“Why?”

“The representation of Soul can be anything, but pieces of their legacy are most effective. She was devout. A touch of Atroxus’s light would work.”

My gaze shot back to the necklace—the emblem that had looked so familiar.

“She’s an acolyte of Atroxus, too.”

That was it. The emblem wasn’t that of the Order of the Destined Dawn. It belonged to one of the smaller sects that worshipped Atroxus—the Helianen.

My eyes narrowed at Asar. “Who is she?”

“She was a prisoner.”

A human locked up in Morthryn?

“Why?” There were too many whys . “Why was she imprisoned? Why do you need her back? Why is she dead? Does this have something to do with your mission, too?”

Asar sighed wearily. “I need your magic. Not your questions.”

“Why do you need two followers of Atroxus?”

“Because it’s always important to have redundancies in case one of you dies.”

I stared at the corpse. “One of us already died.”

“This hardly counts,” Asar said, exasperated. “She’s been dead for a few hours. If you die out there, I can’t help you.”

Out there.

The underworld.

A shiver ran up my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“What if I refuse?” I said.

“That would be unwise.”

“I can’t participate in necromancy. Atroxus might take away my magic for associating with a forbidden art, and then I’d be useless to you.”

I crossed my arms. I felt a bit less smug than I looked because, as the words left my lips, I realized it was a perfectly valid concern.

I didn’t know why Atroxus had given me my magic back. But I was determined to keep it, and associating with necromancy, of all things, seemed like an excellent way to prove to him that I was just the dirty, tainted vampire after all.

Asar—begrudgingly—considered this. Then he grabbed a lantern from the wall, opened it up, and withdrew the warped stump of wax within, dousing the blue flames of nightfire with his palm. He held it out to me.

“You bless the candle. I do the rest. Your eternal soul remains untainted.”

I stared at the candle—misshapen, dusty. It looked nothing like the ones I’d lit all those years ago upon the steps of the Citadel. Still, it seemed like yet another mocking reminder of the day I’d been blessed and just how far I’d fallen since.

My gaze slipped to the corpse. It was, indeed, fresh. I could still smell the blood, not yet rancid in her veins, and my stomach didn’t let me forget it. The woman could have been sleeping, eyes closed, mouth relaxed, brow smooth. She looked just like countless priestesses I’d shared my childhood with. Serene, elegant, and so very human.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

I really did think Asar would refuse to answer. But he said, “Chandra.”

It was a religious name. It meant one who spreads the light unto dark places in the old tongues.

Someone who had been born into the world of Atroxus. Unlike me, who had clawed my way into it.

I sighed and lifted my hand over the candle. I reached down, down, down into my heart, where that little piece of humanity still remained.

For a few terrible seconds, I thought the light had abandoned me again. But then a golden spark jumped at the wick, a flame flickering to life.

I winced as a fresh burn opened somewhere on my forearm, safely covered beneath my sleeve. I touched my arm before I could stop myself, then glanced up. I meant to look at the flame, but my eyes traveled beyond it, to Asar.

I didn’t like how he looked at me. Like he could see it all.

I’d meant to give him a bright smile and a flippant you’re welcome, but something in his stare made me pause. It spoke to all the vampire impulses inside me, instincts nudging me toward a dangerous conclusion.

Here I was wondering why Atroxus had picked me—picked me all those years ago, and picked me now. I couldn’t answer that question without prayer. But maybe a question just as important was why Nyaxia had picked Asar for this mysterious mission of his. My human instincts and my vampire ones clashed, both screaming at me that we were headed somewhere dangerous.

Asar broke our stare, taking the candle from me with a faint wince at the proximity to Atroxus’s magic. He placed it in the circle, filling the final missing piece of the spell.

“That’ll be all,” he said. “You should rest. And drink. I can sense your hunger from?—”

“What has Nyaxia asked you to do?” I cut in.

There was no charming lightness to my voice anymore. No playful curiosity. I had a bad, bad feeling in my stomach, and it wasn’t from the stench of the corpse.

Asar didn’t look up. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet, Iliae. Seeing as you consider yourself so attuned with the gods.”

Stop calling me that, I wanted to say. But my thoughts were going too fast, stringing pieces of knowledge together.

“Nyaxia is sending you to the underworld,” I said. “And you’re a necromancer. So she likely needs you to bring someone back.”

Asar said nothing. He also didn’t correct me, which I took as agreement.

But one didn’t typically need to literally go to the underworld to perform necromancy—as evidenced by the ceremony before me.

That is, unless it was an especially difficult task. One that required an even closer connection to death.

But why wouldn’t Nyaxia do it herself?

Why would it require the magic of other gods?

“But who would Nyaxia need?—”

I stopped mid-sentence.

“ Oh. Oh, gods.”

I hoped I was wrong.

I prayed I was wrong.

But the twitch at the corner of Asar’s mouth made my stomach sink.

There was only one dead soul that Nyaxia could want back whom she wouldn’t be able to resurrect herself. Someone who had been executed by the god of the sun. Someone who had held a closer connection to the underworld than any other.

I had to be wrong. It was impossible.

Asar’s gaze, piercing and indecipherable, flicked up to mine. “You are finally speechless,” he remarked.

“Alarus,” I choked out. “It’s Alarus. You’re going to resurrect the god of death.”

Nyaxia’s deceased husband, who had been murdered by the White Pantheon—an execution led by Atroxus himself.

Asar’s mouth curled into a grim smile, his scars warping with the expression.

“No, Dawndrinker,” he said. “ We are going to resurrect the god of death.”